


A Line to Walk

by aguantare



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Unrequited, mexico nt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 15:09:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13883454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/pseuds/aguantare
Summary: Hector swings his legs over the side of the bed and gets to his feet, stretches his arms up over his head, sweatpants riding low on his hips. Diego looks away.





	A Line to Walk

**Author's Note:**

> Been wanting to write some Mexico NT fic for awhile now. If you don't know them, Diego Reyes is [this baby-face](https://media.metrolatam.com/2017/06/02/reyes-1200x600.jpg), and Hector Moreno is [this hombre](http://the18.com/sites/default/files/styles/feature_image_with_focal/public/feature-images/20180131-The18-Image-Moreno-Smile.jpg?itok=RslS_uiV%22). Reyes plays for Porto, and Moreno plays for Real Sociedad. They both play center back for Mexico, and together they're [quite easy ](https://www.gettyimages.com/detail/news-photo/mexican-national-soccer-team-member-hector-moreno-balances-news-photo/176418831#mexican-national-soccer-team-member-hector-moreno-balances-a-ball-as-picture-id176418831)[ on the eyes](https://twitter.com/jonatan_pena/status/583286180952686592).
> 
> Title comes from the song "Tightrope" by The Score - _But everyone's got a line to walk / We got to keep from looking down_
> 
> Disclaimer: don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me

Diego's only half-paying attention to the card game going on at the table in front of him. There are various knots of teammates and coaching staff scattered around the hotel lounge, and periodically the door will open and Diego will glance up from his phone, then look back down when he sees who it is—or more importantly, who it isn't. Given the commentary and conversation that's filtered in amidst his text messages to and from Viviana, he's pretty sure Javier is winning the card game and Lozano's accused him of cheating at least three times, which is pretty much par for the course. 

A card flips onto the screen of his phone. Two of Hearts. He plucks it from his phone, flicks it back towards the table without even looking. 

“Seriously--what planet are you on?” Diego looks up just in time to get a face full of jacket. He grabs at the fabric, rolls it up with his free hand. 

“What?” he grumbles. Javier rolls his eyes, leans over and takes his jacket back. 

“Only called your name like a hundred times,” he says, “Dinner in ten minutes. Should probably go and wake your roommate up.”

“Thought he'd already come down,” Diego says, glancing around. The pretense of not paying too close of attention comes easily; he's had lots of practice. 

Javier glances around too, shakes his head. Diego sighs inwardly, shoves his phone in his pocket and gets to his feet. 

-

At the door to their room on the 8th floor, Diego pauses. It's a familiar process, mustering up his resolve before one-on-one interactions like this, but it's not easy—it never has been. He keeps hoping it'll get easier with time.

It's quiet when he steps into the room he and his fellow center back are sharing. 

“Hey _hombre_ ,” he calls out, closing the door behind him, “You awake?” 

No answer. Diego heads past the bathroom and into the main room. The figure sprawled out on the bed closest to the window is mumbling a few choice words, one arm thrown across his face. He's shirtless and relaxed and half-bathed in early-evening sunlight, and Diego feels like he should leave, like he's seeing something only Irene should get to see.

“Rise and shine, _abuelo_ ,” he says instead, cheerful, teammate-to-teammate, friend-to-friend. 

Hector groans something that sounds like _hijo de puta_ , props himself up on his elbows, scrubs a hand over his face. The crucifix necklace he wears dangles against his bare collarbone. Diego carefully does not let his gaze linger.

“What's up?” Hector asks, voice gravelly with sleep. 

“Dinner in ten,” Diego says, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his shoulder against the wall, “Wanted to make sure you didn't miss it.”

Hector clears his throat and pushes himself up into a sitting position, sets his elbows on his knees.

“Miss me when I'm gone, _flaco_?” he teases with a half smile.

“In your dreams,” Diego retorts, “You just get grumpy when you don't eat and then I have to put up with you.”

Hector purses his lips a little, clearly holding down a smirk. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and gets to his feet, stretches his arms up over his head, sweatpants riding low on his hips. Diego looks away. When he looks back, Hector has grabbed his shirt from where it was draped over the back of the chair by the window and is pulling it on over his head. The fabric settles unevenly onto his frame, rumpled in spots, the collar askew. 

“Don't put too much effort into your clothing or anything,” Diego snipes. Hector grins a punch to Diego's solar plexus, pads across the room until he's standing just on the edge of Diego's personal space.

“You mean like you?” he responds, reaching out and flicking a finger against the folded collar of Diego's button-up, “What'd Chicha call you again—preppy?” 

He says the last word in English, his accent perfect, and Diego smiles—he can't help it. And then, because the opportunity is there, and he can't have anything else, but at least he can have this, he reaches out with one hand and tugs at Hector's shirt until the rumples and wrinkles smooth out. 

“Better?” Hector asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Much,” Diego responds without missing a beat. He tucks his hand safely back under his other arm. He's had plenty of practice at this too, at touching without letting it linger.

Hector's watching him, and when Diego meets his eyes, his expression softens in a way Diego can't quite describe. He eases inside Diego's personal space, and for a long moment he just stands there.

“What?” Diego asks. Hector shrugs.

“Nothing,” he replies. Then he leans forward, fits his mouth carefully against Diego's. It could almost be chaste, but when Hector pulls back, the way he clears his throat and avoids Diego's eyes tells Diego that it was anything but.

“Maybe in another life, huh?” he says quietly, still not looking at Diego.

Diego swallows empty.

“Yeah, maybe,” he replies. 

Hector takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. He steps past Diego, heading for the door. As he does so, Diego feels him rest a warm hand on his upper arm—an apology, maybe, or an acknowledgment that, for all the progress Mexico and the rest of the world has made, this isn't yet something that either of them are able—or willing—to do. 

Then he's gone, and Diego knows, without having to be told, that they'll never talk about this again.

**Author's Note:**

>  _hombre_ : man  
>  _abuelo_ : grandpa, grandfather  
>  _hijo de puta_ : son of a bitch  
>  _flaco_ : thin; like other adjectives in Spanish, can be used as a nickname


End file.
